In the Land of Delirium
by Mphaal
Summary: Walk like them until they walk like you, but what after? The Madgod decides to court the Lord of Debauchery with mortality, fight some upstart Altmer, have some family bonding time, and maybe avert yet another catastrophe.
1. Put on Your Mantle

It came to pass that the king of merry madness, Lord Sheogorath of the Shivering Isles, grew tired of seeing his beloved realm destroyed era upon era, and he, though he was very clever and thought of more schemes to stop the terrific and terrible Order that descended upon his Isles than there were men and mer in the world, could find no other solution than to sow the seeds of Himself in the fertile grounds of mortal minds and hope they sprouted. He beckoned many from the mortal realms into his land of a thousand horrible delights, welcoming both brave champions of justice and depraved fiends, for he loved all alike. Alas, though he invited many into the Shivering Isles, his mortal minions failed one by one, and Lord Sheogorath despaired, for the Greymarch quickened and he could feel the Him that was Not Him rising day by day and note by note.

Yet he never lost faith (except when he did) that his champion would arise, and when all seemed angular and all in a row, he found Himself and was most pleased, for he was still sore from losing a wager with Azura and knew the He Who Would Become Himself would be most displeasing to her. At realizing this, Lord Sheogorath rejoiced and his laughter broke apart to become a thousand glittering butterflies. Or maybe that came before. He knew not. Memory was mere suggestion in the Isles.

Those of marvelous Mania say that the Champion Triumphant could flit from roof to roof and tree to tree as quick and happily as any bird, though singing much worse on the rare occasion he was coerced to do so. Dunmer then and now tend towards gloom, but he was of a sanguine disposition and could oft be found talking to all people, great and small and at all hours of the day and night, particularly those of fine features. They say that his soul danced with happiness, because he had seen what no other mortal alive had seen and he had done what no other mortal alive had done.

Those of dreadful Dementia say that the Champion Triumphant descended into great rages not seen since Pelinal Whitestrake himself and would slaughter all manner of foul beasts that crossed his path. Dunmer then and now tend towards pride, but he was of a melancholic disposition and could oft be found trying to hide his face from the world in shame of what those mortals of the Isles knew not. They say that his soul froze over in his despair and burned in his wrath, because he had seen what no other mortal alive had seen and he had done what no other mortal alive had done.

Those of disoriented Delirium, which came later and is bordered by Perplexity and Pareidolia, by and large never met the Champion Triumphant when he had not yet become what he had always maybe been. Others say that he was born a Dunmer, but they say that he was everything and nothing in form and function, holy crusader and unholy assassin, and that is why they welcome all into their tribe. They do not speak of souls often, but they say that his shivers in anticipation of things yet to come.

None are correct. All are correct. Sheogorath is as Sheogorath is.

Lord Sheogorath's champion proved true, and when all was said and done, he was Him and He Who Was Not Him left to roam Oblivion and the Isles shivered and quivered in joy most great. But Lord Sheogorath, who was as he was before and yet something new entirely, was not yet ready to greet the other great lords, because he was as a butterfly newly emerged from the chrysalis and needed time to grow into Himself. He knew this because though he was Madgod, he could not yet balance the sacred staff of his office upon his palm like his predecessor, and in his infinite wisdom, he knew he would not truly be Daedric Prince of Madness until such acts were as natural to him as bees to a Spriggan.

So Lord Sheogorath put his affairs of court in disorder, and, putting his chamberlain in charge of watering the houseplants, set out to survey his realm in the wake of the terrible Order. He walked the entire length and breadth of the Isles, and though he saw that it was good, he felt it much too small and simple, for He and his Isles could be as vast and deep as the mind, and Sheogorath was infinite. He gazed out into the abyss, contemplating that which had transpired and how it fit into his realm of the mind. From his thoughts, he formed many lands; the jungle Obsession, which promises riches untold for those who would cross into its depths but which is full of terrible pitfalls; Delirium, which is sometimes an island and sometimes a castle and sometimes a bright blue bird that flits around and sings songs in praise of all it sees; Psychalgia, which resides under the ocean and those on the shore can only see the needle-sharp spires of its castle; Compulsion, which is a series of caves that many run through but few escape; Despair, a flat desert without end; and a thousand other places.

When Lord Sheogorath was pleased with his handiwork, he set out to enjoy the terrors and delights of his Shivering Isles, of which there are too many to list. There are not enough words in any language to describe the delicacies that the Madgod experienced in his sojourn, not enough words to describe the whispers of thought against his skin as he dove in and out of psyches, or the way so many minds outside in the mortal world beckoned for him like an old friend. For a thousand years he ventured thus, and for a thousand more, and then a thousand-thousand more, but when he grew weary of his journey, only a day had passed.

And when that was done and he found the balance that he had been lacking, Lord Sheogorath had fully grown into Himself, and would reign over his Sphere forevermore as the Prince of Madness.


	2. A Parliament of Daedra

When it became known –and the princes, in their cleverness, knew immediately- that Jyggalag walked again, but so did Sheogorath, changed yet unchanged, they convened a meeting to discuss what would be done, what _could _be done, and what to do with Sheogorath, who was both mortal and immortal, Dunmer and Daedra. Strange origins are not unknown to the Princes –we may speak of Meridia or Malacath- but such a unique arrangement was without proper precedent, and they knew not how to respond.

Mehrunes Dagon, who was no friend to Sheogorath and even less to his mortal aspect, made the first suggestion, proposing that they slay the Madgod, cut out his heart, and put it on display in their secret meeting hall. This was seconded with great enthusiasm by Molag Bal, who, in addition, suggested something so indescribably obscene that even Namira blanched at the prospect. But the other princes declined his suggestion, because the Oblivion Crisis had made a laughingstock out of Mehrunes Dagon.

The mortal Sheogorath did not belong to the Orsimer tribe, yet Malacath, who is not friend to many and is in turn not loved by many, held begrudging affection for the one who had done his bidding. He proposed that they travel to one of their sacred neutral grounds. During this, they would exchange tokens with the Madgod to sway his affections –the king of all orcs knows too well the dangers of Sheogorath as an enemy- and judge for themselves if he stood on the same grounds as they did.

"You are a fool, Malacath," said the others, ever scornful. "Moreover, you were not even invited. Go back to your pit of ash and leave us true Princes in peace."

But Malacath, used to such ill-treatment, could not be roused from his seat of fine elf bone, and so he stayed to glare at the others.

Hircine spoke next.

"A great hunt. Our quarry will be an errant werebear; our weapons spears. Should this…"

And Hircine, who is known for prowess in the hunt but not in speech, was at a loss of words, for he knew not what Sheogorath was.

"…Should this one keep pace with us, we will consider him a Daedric Prince. If not, he will be our game for all eternity. What say you?"

"That's not a fair deal," said Clavicus Vile, who is a stranger to fair deals. "When he loses, _you_ get all the fun. Let's up the ante. If he wins, we'll let him think he's a Daedric _King_, but when he loses –stop looking at me like that, Barbas, he'll lose- we get to split his realm between us."

"_I'm_Daedric King," said Molag Bal, who did not like the thought of another stealing his crown or, as the case may be, hypothetical crown. "Don't even let him think he's better than us."

"Oh?" said Boethiah as she polished Goldbrand at the table, either not noticing or caring that in her work, she kept jostling Peryite, already planning a plague to wipe out her followers.

"Can't divide a realm up fifteen ways," grumbled Malacath, unheard by all. "Not enough land to go around."

Vaermina delighted in Clavicus Vile's idea and desired the Gardens of Flesh and Bone, while Meridia called for its destruction. Azura demanded that the palace be hers to do with as she saw fit, while Hircine continued to extol the virtues of a good hunt to everyone, though they paid him little mind as he always did that.

"You mock, little lie-prince, but I could break you as easily as a stick underfoot."

"Really? Oh my."

"Scoff, and I will show you the true nature of humiliation. I am chief amongst you in might, already a king among little princes."

"Is that so?"

"No such thing as a Daedric King."

But Malacath continued to go ignored. Boethiah raised a skeptical eyebrow, and with a mighty roar, Molag Bal raised his mace. The prince of plots darted nimbly out of his way, and so Molag Bal struck Peryite. Though he did not command much respect from the other princes, he did not take such foul abasement kindly, and so he coated the two in rank ichor, as well as most of the rest of the table. Though this pleased Namira greatly, it greatly insulted majestic Azura and Nocturnal, who prided themselves on their beauty. Nimble Boethiah drew blood, though unfortunately, it was that of Hircine, who leapt into the fray with a great gnashing of teeth. In their struggle, they upturned the great table forged in the flames of Red Mountain. Barbas whimpered, and in his haste to flee the din, upturned a fountain that Dagon had brought along as a peace-offering, covering all in red-drink. Mephala sat in the corner, supping on a leg of Argonian, and watched with great mirth.

And as the terrible fighting commenced, Sanguine, nursing a hangover of the gods, entered, entirely unaware of anything going on but much pleased nevertheless.

"Well, hey there, what do we have here? No one told me we were having a blood orgy."

His spirits gladdened, he forsook his throne, crafted entirely from the jewelry of brothel-girls, and draped himself across the lap of Mephala. The spider-queen stroked his horns and whispered secrets into his ears as Boethiah and Molag Bal continued their duel, neither gaining the upper hand and neither backing down. Malacath sighed and downed a flagon of strong mead, wondering why such ancient, noble princes always acted like spirited scamps.

But when the warring Daedra upended a pitcher of ectoplasm upon a stack of books, Hermaeus Mora intervened, wrapping mighty tentacles around the warring Daedra and sitting them back down again with a stern warning to cut it out. With much glee, Sanguine cried out for such treatment as well, but the wise lord of knowledge ignored him. To acknowledge Sanguine is to encourage him. Defeated, the prince nestled his face in Mephala's bosom and could not be moved.

"If we are quite done with that," said Nocturnal, beauteous as nighttime auroras despite the fetid pestilence dribbling down her fine robes. "I will raise a few points. Firstly, all true princes are equal. It is in your nature to dominate, Molag Bal, but may I remind you what happened to the last of us who overstepped his boundaries? Listen not to Boethiah, for our brother relishes your anger by his words.

Secondly, I see the merit of all your proposals, but the risks are too high and the rewards lacking. What example would it set for him -if he is indeed Sheogorath reborn- if any of us true princes fell behind in the hunt? We cannot expect dear Vaermina to keep pace with Hircine and sweet Sanguine stumbles in his drunkenness. If he is truly Sheogorath, to show weakness would be courting disaster.

Moreover, all of us have caught glimpses at his Isles, and as tempting as it would be to have slivers of his realm to do with as we see fit, it would only lead to unnecessary fighting. Not counting pretenders to the title of Daedric Prince and Jyggalag, there are fourteen of us. How could we possibly split up the realm fourteen times in a way that would leave all content? It is no secret that our politics are complicated, our tension great. What would you do if Molag Bal invaded Clavicus Vile's portion to get to Boethiah? What if Vaermina and Meridia went to war? No, the only one who would benefit from such an arrangement is Mehrunes Dagon, and I do not see it fit to reward him so after that dreadful mess in Cyrodiil.

I suggest we approach this from a different perspective. He is a wily one, and if we are to do anything about him, we cannot be forthright in our dealings. We seek to judge for ourselves if this Sheogorath stands on equal footing, but we cannot approach it as a hunt. For if he might win, he _will_win, and we cannot have that. Can we not simply meet with him without pretense of competition?"

"If it must be so, then let it be so," said the other princes, save for Sanguine, insensible to anything but the crowning glories of Mephala.

Azura spoke next.

"Dear sister, if we must meet with the one who calls himself Sheogorath, we must do so in a suitable location. If he is indeed Sheogorath, which I doubt, then to travel to his realm is madness itself. I do not think it would be wise to let him into our realms, for who invites a madman with an axe into their home and expects it to end well? I would suggest traveling to Tamriel in mortal guise, but to do so at the moment would be most unwise, _Dagon_. Our hall is in shambles yet again. A gentle lot you are."

"If I may interject," said Meridia, tossing her mane of golden hair. Azura rebuffed her, saying that she may not, in fact, interject, but she went unheeded. "I think we must consider the Forest of Wayward Souls as a meeting place. Its neutrality remains uncontested."

"Yes, but the souls inside do. If you will let me continue, the Hall of the Beginning has remained unused for eons, yet it is well-furnished. It gives no advantage or disadvantage to any of us, and therefore I propose we meet there. What say you?"

The Daedric Princes considered Azura's suggestion and all but Meridia and Sanguine agreed to the idea. The former was most insulted by the rejection of her proposition. The latter was too busy listening to Mephala's scandalous gossip and enjoying her bounty to care about whatever the others (and oh, if only they'd quiet up, for his head pained him) discussed.

"We're in agreement for a change," spoke Mephala, patting the lord of the debauchery on the head like one would a beloved cat. "Mostly. Stranger things have happened, but I know not what. If we're to have Sheogorath here, we must make it worthwhile. We'll exchange gifts. Isn't that lovely?"

"You plot," spoke Molag Bal.

"But of course. And aren't we all the more amused for it? There, there, Sanguine, watch the horns."

"I fear Mephala's mischief, but the idea has merit," said Azura. "If he is indeed Sheogorath, if a changed one, then it is in all of our best interests to sway him to our side. He is troublesome to his friends but more so to his enemies. As he is _not_ Sheogorath and _not_a Daedric Prince, then we will use the opportunity to humiliate him and show him what we think of false gods. Are we in agreement on this?"

"Wait, wait, who's not Sheogorath?" Sanguine asked, though his words were somewhat muffled by Mephala's bountiful bosom.

"Sheogorath is not Sheogorath. He is dead. Jyggalag walks once more."

"Oh, fuck that. I mean, don't. I wouldn't even. So if he's…wait, what, Sheogorath's dead? I'm not the smartest or the most, oh, these are divine, Mephala! Should build a shrine to your breasts. Uh, anyway, I'm not the smartest or most clever or most sober, but even I know that's not possible.

To her priestesses, Azura is often called Mother of the Rose. Many assume it is because roses bear all the beauty of dusk and dawn, and true as it is, it is also because she is the only one of the Daedric Princes with enough patience to deal with the drunkard Sanguine, who loves that flower above all others. In turn, he leaves her alone from his wandering hands and other wandering appendages. She pried him with much protest from Mephala's lap and breasts, and took him aside to explain the situation to him.

"But I don't understand how that works."

"Oh, sweet Sanguine, we do not either."

And with that said, so was concluded the matter of Sheogorath, though Jyggalag still loomed over all. As Sanguine surveyed the wreckage of the great hall, he moved that they deal with _that_ sordid business another day. He wasn't drunk enough yet.


	3. Birthday Party Eulogies

Sheogorath is the heart of the Shivering Isles. Change is the heart of Daedra. Stasis is the heart of Aedra. That is what has been often said, anyway. Yet the Hall of the Beginning has no heart and in turn is not the heart of anything. Never have the Princes known how the Hall came to be or its true nature, but nevertheless, (or possibly because of this) they conduct their most solemn affairs within its walls. Strictly speaking, it has no walls and is not a hall. Instead, it was something unexplained left over from before the first kalpa, something that is so incomprehensible to even Daedra that if its true form were fully understood, reality itself would sunder apart. Being a considerate eldritch abomination, it takes the shape of a mead hall for everyone's sake, especially Sanguine, who cannot sit still longer than ten minutes without a tankard of something strong to occupy him.

Princes solve their problems with mortal pawns, caring little about what harm may befall their champion as long as they outwit their enemy. Rarely do they encounter a quandary so large that they cannot resolve it by playing with their toy followers, but they had found themselves in a situation where that would not suffice. The last time they had found themselves like so, Sheogorath came into being in the selfsame halls that the Daedra now convened in.

A round table made of something almost like stone rested in the center of the hall, surrounded by the thrones of the Daedric Princes. The throne of a prince is only a throne in the loosest sense of the word: Azura's is a giant rose made of the first light of dawn and the dying light of dusk, Malacath's is but a pile of ash and bone of the one that came before him, and Mephala's is the secrets that the dying take to their graves. Of one throne, none would look or speak of, and that was the crystal throne of Jyggalag.

"The little worm will not come," said Vaermina when the time for Sheogorath's appearance came and went. "He does not know the proper channels that we do. He is not Him."

"Patience, nightmare," said Hermaeus Mora, who in his infinite wisdom had an idea how things would play out. "He will come."

"You may say that, but I-"

The lady of nightmares swallowed her words, for at that moment, the air itself shimmered and shook as reality rearranged itself. Where once was nothing, now stood a male Dunmer of no great build, no great beauty, and certainly no great notability. His clothing was a rough imitation of the Madgod's magnificent regalia, his staff but a piece of dead wood, and while Sheogorath's eyes glowed with deadly intent, his dull red eyes betrayed nothing except mild befuddlement. The Princes paused, waiting for something, anything, though they knew not what.

"Hello! I'm Sheogorath. Look, look at this, I have the Wabbajack and everything."

The interloper beamed and held up the stick as the Daedra descended upon him. It did him no good.

When at long last the deceiver was dead and the Princes stood triumphant, their authority restored over mortal upstarts, Azura spoke.

"Any Dunmeri loss wounds me, but what must be done has been done. We cannot tolerate any mortals who dare think they can assume Our position, and I fear with the death of Our brother, we may see more try to claim His place. Ah, Sheogorath! I fear the world will be all the duller for his passing."

"Oh, Azura, I never knew you actually _liked_ him," crooned Sanguine as he riffled through what remained of the pretender's pockets in hopes of finding money to lavish on buxom worshipers or, if he got lucky, skooma. "Isn't that sweet? No, no, don't look at me like that, I mean it. Think of all the little Aureals you could have raised together or the other ones…the ones with the purple rumps. I like those ones."

"Enough, Sanguine. Do not rummage through that thing like a debased mortal. Let me say this so that I never have to again. I will not claim that Sheogorath's actions always pleased me, but so was His nature to be contrary. He started as naught but a punishment for one of Us who misunderstood His place, yet over time, the punishment surpassed the punished. Jyggalag walks again, but did not Sheogorath laugh last? The artificial construct is loved more by all. We will mourn Him in our own way, He who taught us such bitter lessons and strange joys. This is the funeral of Sheogorath, Lord of the Shivering Isles, Prince of Madness. My eulogy is complete. Will the next one to speak arise at the first and last funeral of a Prince?"

One by one and realm by realm, the Daedric Princes spoke their final farewells to the Prince of Madness. Hircine spoke of how Sheogorath hunted those of guilty conscience until their minds snapped and they spilled their sordid secrets to the guards. Vaermina spoke of a lesson learned on how dreams and madness intertwine, while Mephala spoke of the wondrous tangles and breaks he put in the web. Namira spoke of how his Dementia and her philosophy of repugnance nourished each other, Clavicus Vile spoke of how often broken wishes lead to Him, and Peryite rhapsodized about the diseases of the brain.

At last, the time came for the last to speak. Sanguine rose on uncertain legs, wobbling both with an excess of drink and an excess of something enormously unpleasant: _feelings_. He didn't take to feeling anything but ecstasy and schadenfreude well. If one Daedra –and despite what others may say, Sheogorath had always been more real, more Daedric than Jyggalag- could die, then were the others really as untouchable as they thought? And if a Daedra or artificial construct as Azura said –but the very idea felt wrong- could die, what happened? Did Sheogorath follow the path of dead mortals or did he simply cease to be? And what of the Isles? With their master gone, would they crumble into Oblivion or would they remain without a ruler until another Prince came to take the throne or destroy it all?

If he could, Sanguine would have told the other Princes about those little moments between tavern and tavern where his mind, plagued by the first inklings of sobriety, started to wander down a dark path that only led to pain and confusion if he followed it. He would have told the other Princes about the oddity of being debauchery itself and yet capable of feeling guilty for existing just as he should, of knowing how to pick at his revelers until they danced just as he willed them to without truly understanding how they worked, of why exactly so many of those who shouted his praises and partook of his blessing wound up in the Shivering Isles. Most of all, he would have told the other Princes that they could say Sheogorath was dead all they wanted, but as a book he skimmed through long ago said, He was already inside each of them.

But Sanguine did not. His way was with honeyed words and whispered promises dying to be broken, not with anything else. If only the drink here were stronger! Then maybe his throat wouldn't burn with the weight of words that would never be said.

"Nothing about this makes sense, but nothing else does either. I like Sheogorath. Liked? I don't know. We didn't walk together much, but we made a bet on this Nord one time, only I can't remember how it ended for the life of me. We weren't much different, not really, except I guess we were because I'm not dead and we're at his funeral…though I guess we're only at his funeral because you lot just killed what remained of Him or maybe Jyggalag did or something like that. I don't really understand this whole whatever it is, but it makes me feel…I need a drink."

"Brilliant! Actually, no, that was dreadful. Dreadfully brilliant. I appreciate the sentiment, but your complexion could use a little work. Complexion? Enunciation. Maybe both. I'm not sorry I'm late. I lost track of time. It's an arbitrary system, you know, and also a dragon."

Sanguine, his eulogy interrupted by the deceased, stared. Sheogorath stared right back with an impish or possibly homicidal smirk as he materialized, legs crossed and eyes like two pearls, on the center of the table. He was as he always was –all purple and gold, beard and slicked back hair, mirth, mania, murder- but he was also a shadow of Jyggalag, a tear in the fabric of reality, a Chimer holding his own heart in his outstretched hands, and a lank Dunmeri man with raven hair –pitch black, raggedy, and Sanguine had the distinct impression it was no stranger to being splattered with gore- who did not look as if he had slept in decades. He was all of this at once, disorienting enough to drunken Sanguine and surely mind-breaking for mortal minds.

Nestled in his lap was a mutilated hound with not even enough skin to cover its exposed flesh, but when Barbas padded forward, it, with a merry bark and wag of its skeletal tail, leapt off the Madgod's lap to chase circles around the hound. For now, the other Princes gave Sheogorath –and they knew at once that this was indeed Him- the benefit of silence. To interrupt Him in such a state meant only trouble.

"Well, are you waiting for me to stand up or am I waiting for you to sit down? Oh, or am I waiting for you to clean that mess off the floor? I think I am. Really now, I can't leave my accessories alone for one moment without them getting disemboweled by demented Daedra. Only I can disembowel my accessories. Silly thing said he was Me, so I said, 'Why _not_encourage him?' And look at him now, all over the floor. But really now, aren't you all just terribly happy to see me again? And look at me! I'm splendid. First Daedra to ever be born. I break the rules of reality just by breathing or not breathing. See, I did it just now."

The Madgod gestured towards the thrones surrounding him, dipping a finger into a goblet of blood and painting runes directly onto the table around him. The Daedra, always finding it easier to humor Sheogorath than not, took their seat each by each. However, one stood standing. Mehrunes Dagon shot the Madgod a look of complete and utter contempt before storming out of the Hall. Not unexpected, and truth be told, Sheogorath could not say his departure was unwanted.

"Very well, I'm sure you have a lot of questions, so I'm not going to answer them. We'll not answer questions in alphabetical order and –yes, Meridia?"

In times of calm, mortals considered the Lady of Infinite Energies the most beautiful, most kind of all Daedra, but true beauty resided in her wrath. She glowed in her fury, the very air gleaming in her wrath. Undaunted, the Madgod reached out and snatched a particle of her light to use in his work.

"You dare profane our sacred Halls with that abomination?"

Her voice thundered, but Lord Sheogorath was used to such treatment and did not tremble as would a mortal.

"I should strike that foul creature where it stands. This insult to Me, to my Sphere will not be tolerated. Foul debaser, you are nothing but a-"

"It pains me to cut you off ," said Sheogorath, not looking up from his painting. "but it might be interesting to note that someone threatened Dog a couple thousand years ago in Isles time. I keep his head on display in my private quarters as a conversation piece and boy, is that man sorry. Funny thing, heads. You never truly appreciate them until a mad Daedra cuts them off."

"Do you threaten me, Madgod? You of all Daedra, who is in no position to even mock me?"

"Well, yes, I did hope I made that point clear, but I can't even make myself clear. I've tried. The Mad Dog is a citizen –and a Duchess too no less- of the Shivering Isles, born on my lands, dead on my lands, undead on my lands, so that makes her Mine and not Yours. If it's any consolation, my gift to you was the death of hundreds of undead on Tamriel, so I think that evens out my one hound. _Hundreds_. I was swarming with nasty adventurer diseases and all for You."

A scowl marred her beauty, but Meridia could not deny that Sheogorath, in his time as a mortal, had done a great service to her by cleansing the world of foul undead creatures. Yet nevertheless, the Skinned Hound was an abomination to her, duchess of the Isles or not, and she could not easily forgive such a slight. She rose from her sun-gold throne and strode out of the Hall, but not before placing something at the Madgod's feet, for though she hated the undead, she was not without manners.

And so Sheogorath, on his second first birthday, received from Meridia an orb of cleansing energy, so should a day come when it came time to purge his realm of the undead, he need only to release it from its casing and say his thanks. He would not, but he could appreciate a pretty bauble.

From Nocturnal, he received whispered words that mortals would not, could not comprehend, yet Sheogorath, in his infinite madness, divined the meaning. In turn, he passed a worn cowl into her hands. The other princes did not understand, but it was a fair trade, and so were Sheogorath and Nocturnal allies in madness and mystery.

Boethiah delighted the Madgod with his presence alone –for though he was now Daedric Prince, two faces of the Madgod grew up with tales of the good Daedra- and so for the Prince of Plots, Sheogorath split the skin of his breast with his Akaviri sword and offered the divine blood to her. This was pleasing to Boethiah, who loves blood above all. Boethiah presented Him with a delightful conspiracy, the details of which are lost to history.

To Clavicus Vile, Sheogorath returned his Masque and gave Barbas a pat on the head, for He loved dogs of all types, undead and alive. Clavicus Vile offered Him one wish, an offer Sheogorath would take up later. It is said that the Wishmaker grew to regret this decision, though if you ask his Hound, he offers a very different tale.

Namira offered nothing and in turn Sheogorath gave nothing. A fair trade. As far as Sheogorath was concerned, she had taken too much from him already.

And when it was Mephala's turn –fey Mephala who picks at the strands of love and friendship and death, Mephala who taught assassination to her children- she offered him a coy smile, which he did not return.

"Oh, little one," she said, addressing not Sheogorath Himself, but his Dunmeri face. "What can I say? I remember your youth, the despair on your face when the Morag Tong rejected you. I especially enjoyed your time in the Dark Brotherhood, short as that turned out to be. When you were traveling back to tell dear Lucien Lachance of the traitor without knowing what was being done to him then, my heart, it just stopped. Your closest friends, all dead by your hands. What an assassin you turned out to be. You couldn't have done all this without Me."

"I was marvelous, wasn't I?" said he with flippant smile, though rather strained around the ends.

Mephala, paying no heed to the blood, briefly took his hand and kissed it.

"The very best," she whispered. "The very best. You know my gift. May you always live with yourself and thanks for the fun."

Hermaeus Mora, who needed not the Madgod's allegiance but sought it anyway, told him a secret that widened his dead eyes imperceptibly to all but the most observant. In turn, He offered Him a handful of petals and Grummite eggs, the meaning of which the Daedra of Knowledge is still trying to understand.

Hircine, who has learned not to cross the Madgod, offered him the skull of Cyrodiil's last unicorn. Very reverently, Sheogorath affixed flowers of gold and feathers blue to his mighty horns. Others mocked, but the huntsman rebuffed them with sharp words and sharper teeth.

Molag Bal came next and attempted to sway the Madgod to his side with tales of might and domination over mortals and Daedra alike. A picture of patience, he sat, still drawing practicing his bloody art upon the table, and listened. When all was said, Sheogorath presented Him with a mighty spear as long as ten men, thick as a tree, and topped with an elaborate head that could skewer an entire army at once.

"This is…_magnificent_."

Molag Bal is not known for displays of emotion, but he was in awe of such a mighty spear, and this pleased Sheogorath greatly.

"I thought you might enjoy it," said the Madgod. "For I have heard that your spear has been left in a lamentable state by that split one."

Awe turned to anger (and Sanguine laughed heartily, for he was the patron Daedra of such jests) and Molag Bal attempted to run Sheogorath through with his new gift, snarling that he should not listen to heathen elven propaganda. But the Madgod was quick and the Madgod was clever, and he danced on the end of the terrible spear and could not be pierced. And so Lord Sheogorath made a powerful enemy, but he couldn't be bothered to care.

Vaermina, who is nightmare, came next, and the two Daedra chatted as old friends. She promised nightmares beyond mere imagination to drive men and mer insane. He promised wild imagination to drive men and mer to the land of nightmares.

During the entire gift giving, Azura remained silent, but she, the unforgiving mother of the Dunmer, was not without passion. When the time came for her gift to Sheogorath, she lacked love, lacked pity, and struck his face.

"You mock Me with the shape you take. You mock Me for becoming that which you should not. How _dare_you."

The mortal Sheogorath was originally of Morrowind, but instead of worshipping the Tribunal as did so many in that time, he came of a long line of Daedric cultists, worshipping in secret all manner of Princes, Azura chief among them. That of him which was Dunmeri hurt to be rejected so by his lady of dawn and that of him which was Daedra –and all of him was Daedra- took it as a challenge.

"I address you as my mortal aspect. I have done inexcusable things, so I will not excuse them. But if it should please you, it was with a sword made in your honor –Duskfang, Dawnfang- that I dispatched Jyggalag and it was in your honor that I ruined my eyes, so that the eyes of Madness would not be Dunmeri eyes. And does it not please you greatly, who are most beautiful of all Daedra -and not Meridia, haha- to see me in such a state? Because it does, my lady, it does. Let it not be said that I did not lose everything for so lofty a position. Take it not out on our people as a whole, which I understand is your way, but on me instead, if punishment be your will."

"Very well, Mavis Ienith," said Azura, who sees into the hearts of all Dunmer and knew that which even Sheogorath did not. "This betrayal shall be even when I have one of your bloodline to replace that which disobeyed me by becoming Madgod. To my service she will be bound, to my will she will be bound, and she will denounce you as madman and traitor to her children and her children's children. Such is the will of Azura."

And he smiled, for he believed his bloodline to be dead with him, but he had always believed many things that were not precisely true.

"I accept your terms, Lady Azura, and hope you will one day forgive my gross betrayal of all you teach. But it hurts me to wear mortal-face to speak and now I address you as Sheogorath of the Shivering Isles. Please accept this as a token of my something or another. I could have given you a lovely bit of Slaughterfish instead, but I didn't. Hope it's nice."

The Madgod offered Lady Azura a sword of most unique design and character, Fang, which was sometimes Dawnfang and sometimes Duskfang, but neither right now, since it could not decide what to be in Azura's presence. Accepting His offer, she touched him on both eyelids and blessed them with the beauty of dusk and dawn, so that those who looked upon his blank eyes would be not afraid. Her quarrel rested with mortal, not god.

Peryite the Taskmaster had no quarrel with either madman or Madgod, and they found themselves mutually satisfied in the formation of a new strain of Brainrot, which would bring them both disease and madness aplenty.

Jyggalag was not invited, but Sheogorath already had the most divine blessing from him.

To Malacath, Sheogorath offered all manner of bones to craft into armor for his orcish champions, but Malacath declined the offer, content with being recognized as a Daedric Prince, if only by the Madgod, for a change. In turn, he offered Sheogorath scant words of praise but they were more than sufficient.

At last, all that remained was Sanguine, who brings ruin to the virginity of many a merry maiden and handsome lad. The Madgod, who all this time painted on the table, made the last stroke and was finished. The runes shown like the sun with Meridia's stolen light, almost making one forget that the artist painted them with blood.

"Now this one, this one's for you. Jyggalag is going to be _so_mad when he tries to clean this up in, oh, about a year from now, give or take a few centuries. Angry mad, not mad mad, which is good, because he can't come to My realm. Do you like it? Of course you like it."

But Sanguine hesitated to answer, and Sheogorath came to a realization.

"It's _The Lusty Argonian Maid_in its original language. You don't read Dwemeris?"

"I'm sorry, Madgod, for not recognizing your gift," said Sanguine with a laugh that could seduce even Molag Bal, which he knew to be true for a fact. "You see, I understand all languages except those of humorless assholes."

"They _did_have the most judgmental beards of any race. Let me think. Oh, I have it! This time I absolutely have it."

He, not mindful of the fact that he smudged the runes he worked on for such length, lunged forward and for more than a moment, Sanguine was certain that the Madgod meant to assault him, to rend him apart with his teeth like a common animal. So surprised was he that he nearly toppled his throne over in his haste to escape the terrible fate that surely awaited him, but lo, Sheogorath did not bite.

Sheogorath kissed him with all the force of madness, with all the strength of his own delusions, with the selfsame passion that drives those of Dementia to kill and those of Mania to sing. Some kisses are chaste, innocent, the kind shared by young sweethearts under the shade of a lakeside tree. Some kisses are desperate, full of despair and that which cannot be said, the kind shared during war by two who may never see each other again yet cannot live apart. Some kisses are full of fire and sex, other kisses are as cold as despair, and some kisses are only shared by people who have lived together so long that they need not speak to know what there is to be said.

This was none of those. If it were not for the lips pressed against his –and what lips were they, those that belonged to one who was many at once!- Sanguine would not even call it such. With His kiss, Sheogorath tore though the Prince of Debauchery's mind at a whirlwind speed, plunging into each of his memories before he could even realize it and then out just as quick, all the while showing him glimpses of mortal concepts which he could not yet understand but left him wanting more. And when the Madgod was quite done, He was most pleased to note that he had stolen Sanguine's breath away.

"I," said the Madgod. "have just kissed everyone you have ever kissed by proxy. The places, the people you've been in make an old Daedra blush. Not Me, of course, but some other old Daedra. Maybe Jyggalag? If He's not a virgin, I don't even want to know who took care of that."

Hardly aware of anything but the taste of mortality he had received, Sanguine mutely nodded in agreement to whatever the Daedra said –at the moment, he knew not what- as he tried to clear his mind of that which Sheogorath had shown him. But such efforts were in vain, for once the Madgod has his hooks into one's mind, He is loathe to leave. When at last he was in the present and aware that a whole host of Princes were staring at him –and some rather smugly too, namely Mephala- Sanguine spoke again.

"Well, that was…that was a thing that happened and you know what, I'm down for…"

Sanguine suddenly had one of the most singularly horrible thoughts of His existence.

"Wait, oh _fuck_, that wasn't some weird madness marriage ritual or anything? Because old Sanguine doesn't-"

"Unbrother," interrupted the Madgod with something akin to panic, for as a mortal, he had been no lover of Mara, and as Prince, matrimony was not currently His whim. "your virtue remains questioned, your bachelorhood intact. So there. Go out into the world and galumph about like a perambulating tartlet and do so with plenty of lumph. I hear Red Mountain is full of luscious Spriggans this time of year. Pity they're all dead…"

"Just checking, just checking, don't get your beard out of alignment. You have no idea how many times I've accidentally gotten myself married. Humans, elves, orcs, Argonians, Xivilai, talking swords, magical hermaphrodites, Khajiiti milkmaids, Skyrim, Namira, the Night Mother, myself, the Amulet of Kings, this lovely group of Nordic ghosts…might be missing a few. I don't really remember everything I do. You know how it is. I already don't remember why we're here."

Lord Sheogorath, who knows the words others think too much to say, did not often find Himself flabbergasted or any kind of gasted, for He takes everything in stride, except when He ignores it or mishears it as something more interesting. Yet that, _that_gave him reason to pause.

"My sweet Sanguine, it's settled then. In exactly one week's time, you, me, New Sheoth, some Felldew, some Dremora, a little light poetry, it'll be a wonderful time. I can just picture you now with feathers in your hair and Haskill doing that thing he does so well and I did mention the Felldew, yes? It's the most important part. You're going to be covered in it."

"Sheogorath," said Nocturnal, rising from her shadowy throne to guide him off the table at last, which he did with little protest, thought that which was there was spoken in limerick verse. "Might I suggest planning your couplings elsewhere? It gives Mephala ideas and we cannot have that."

"Nocturnal, you wound me!" cried the Madgod, a hand to his heart -or lack of heart- in mock outrage.

"The nerve and verve of you, to suggest that I plan something so base, so fleshy, so sticky and _squelchy _when I merely seek to invent nail polish! It hasn't been invented yet, so I'm inventing it and He has exquisite nail beds. This insult will not stand! Mostly because insults don't have legs unless I will them to, but I digress and digest and divest and undress. Wait, no, no, the last one's Sanguine. Ah, enough of that! Is it impossible for you to put that away in public?"

While Sheogorath had been distracted by talk and gifts and nail polish, Molag Bal, who does not forget easily or at all, took spear in hand and made sport of trying again to wound the Daedra. And so the two danced together once more to the amusement of all. Bal struck down the Madgod with his mighty spear, but with a demented laugh and a rain of butterflies, He rose again. With all the grace and with courage befitting the king of His realm, Sheogorath scaled Molag Bal, tapped him on the nose with his staff of office, and bade him to please politely hold, freezing the proud Daedric lord in place.

"Your attempts to buy my affections flatter me and your murder attempts do so doubly, but I think it's time to take My leave. Haskill's been all a-flutter about how much vacation time I've been taking and you have no idea how far he can flutter. Ta! We really must do this again some time. No, really, we _must_. I have seen strange things in your future and they don't make sense. Come along, Mad Dog, it's time for butterflies and ichor!"

Lord Sheogorath bowed and curtsied His farewells, the macabre hound bounding to his side with a happy tail wag, and disappeared into a portal that led out of the Hall and back into his beloved Shivering Isles. Instantly, an unspoken weight lifted from the assembled Daedra, for they had not been without worry. Disaster followed all Princes, Sheogorath especially so.

"So it is done then," said Lady Nocturnal. "I know not how –that is Hermaeus Mora's domain- and I know not what this means, but Sheogorath is alive, Sheogorath is Daedra, Sheogorath _is_. So concludes our business here. We have Realms to defend from a common adversary: Jyggalag. Go now."

And so ended the second first birthday party of Lord Sheogorath of the Shivering Isles. And so began Sanguine's consortion with sweet madness, for mortality still lingered on his lips as the Daedra dispersed and He needed to know more.


End file.
